Sometime last week the lights went out across the street.
Gardener set his last flower bed and said
“It’s time for me to sleep.”
Suits came out deep from closets
and the neighbors all gathered in the streets.
The air still smelt of sage and basil,
and lavender grew dark below the trees.
Shadows led towards the pews
and the light hid under a veil.
We all walked in thyme.
A procession through rosemary leaves.

Then Summer knelt up near an altar
and the family all followed her to their knees.
They said: “Priest can you sing us a sermon?
Teach us to celebrate.”
“He’s gone to a better place.”

No sunlight shone in through the chapel.
No colors leaked from stained glass windowpanes.
When his sick wife became sick widow.
No flowers grew under the shade.

Content with life, at peace with age,
beloved wife, she passed away this morning.
With what little strength she had
she dug a hole through dirt and sand
and whispered:

“The sky hung gray for seven days
while we have been alone.
Embraced we stay eternally
and we can watch it grow.”

“I watched from heaven’s gates.
I heard you call for me.
With all the strength I had
my arms reached out for you are my sustenance,
and I am the seed you sow.”

The lamp post flickers on.
The sidewalk cracks retreat.
The shutters open wide.
The porch bench swings without a creak.
The chimney starts to breathe.
The ceiling beams which had fallen weak,
now support the feeble trees.
From this windowsill across the street,
I’ve seen what life can mean.

Every fern that blocked the sky
has bent it’s twigs revealingly.
Every vine which crept and choked now wraps,
and curls around entwining hope.
Each root that hid itself from us
Each vegetable that shriveled up.
Each neighbor who witnessed their bond,
alone or betrothed, now sing the melody.